The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(44)

He shrugged, and began speaking in flawless French, gesturing to each thing on the plate, nodding at her like she knew what he was saying. Clearly, she would need to learn more than Russian if she was going to stay around them.

“I didn’t know you spoke French.” She was learning more about Luka tonight than she had in the months she had known him.

“I’m learning.”

“How long have you been studying it?”

“About a week.”

Lauren looked up at him with wide eyes, cutting into one of the biggest pork chops she had ever seen. “I thought you were going to say a couple of months.”

He watched her, seemingly anticipating the moment she finally took a bite. “I’m a fast learner.”

Finally putting him out of his misery, she took a bite, more than ready to school her features so she wouldn’t hurt his feelings, but there was no need, not with the way he cooked.

“If you ever give up the life,” said Lauren as she scooped up some potatoes, “you could definitely be a chef.”

If Luka were capable of it, she might have thought he would blush at that moment. He placed a hand over his heart, bowing slightly. “I humbly thank you.”

“Any particular reason you chose to study French?” Lauren asked innocently, trying not to smile when Luka’s lips twitched.

“None of your damn business.”





Darkness.

It was all Mishca could see, all he could feel as he was lost in his own mind. There were brief flashes of images, but nothing that made sense to him, at least not until the pain returned.

When it came, he felt the burning, ripping sensation of his flesh shredding as the bullet pierced him, nearly taking his breath away as he fought the agony. He wanted to latch onto something, anything besides the unimaginable pain that flooded his chest.

Mish, don’t die.

Those words were like an anchor to him, drawing him away from the abyss, back to the surface. They were the last words he remembered, and with them came her smile, her face. He had to wake up, if only because she asked it of him.

He—

Mishca took a jagged breath, his eyes opening for the first time, his eyelids feeling like he was ripping them apart, his hand immediately going to his chest where he felt the ghost of the bullet that went through him. While having been shot at, Mishca had never felt the tearing of a bullet through his body, especially not with that caliber.

Trying to sit up, he stilled when he heard the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing to his right.

“Wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Klaus said, lacking any real emotion in his voice. “Might tear your stitches...or maybe you should. Whatever.”

Mishca took a look around, trying to get his bearings before addressing his brother. He should have known this was his work. He knew better than anyone that Klaus would never want him to be happy.

“Are you here to finish it?”

“Sadly, that wasn’t me on that rooftop, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Your wife seems to know me better than you. I’ve never missed a mark.”

Mishca couldn’t help but think back to the last time he had seen Klaus before he had reappeared in his life.





Mishca stood outside the closed door, not knowing what to feel, how to act, or even what to do. On the other side was his twin, one that he hadn’t known existed until twenty minutes prior. In that short span of time, everything he had thought he knew about his mother felt like a lie…but in a way, it also made sense.

When she was alive, and during those times when she thought he wasn’t listening, he remembered often hearing her talking to herself about the sacrifices she had made, but he had never for a second thought that a baby had been that sacrifice.

And Mishca didn’t even know his name.

Jetmir Besnik was standing before him, discussing business with Mikhail as though he hadn’t just spent days torturing someone he had assumed to be a captain in the Volkov Bratva. It sure as hell didn’t sit well with Mishca, and if he were in charge, Mishca would have happily killed them all for the discretion. It was for that reason Mikhail headed this impromptu meeting. He was nothing if not a businessman. He didn’t think about the fact that their plan was to torture Mishca, only what he would gain from it.

“Are we in accord?” Mishca heard as he tuned back into the conversation.

Whatever the Albanians had offered him, it would never be enough for Mishca.

Jetmir stuck out his hand. Mikhail shook it, as well as the hands of a few others that Jetmir had brought with him.

“Mishca?”

He kept his face blank, but Mishca was burning with anger on the inside when Mikhail called his name. Mishca knew what the look Mikhail was giving him meant. As was their way, Mishca was required to shake with them as well, no matter how much it grated on him.

But he wasn’t in any position to argue.

Grudgingly, Mishca accepted Jetmir’s hand, meeting the man’s eyes. Whether Mikhail saw it, or just plain ignored it, Mishca could easily read Jetmir’s expression. He thought he had won this, and in a way, he had.

When they were all gone, some time later, Mishca turned back to the room, surprised to find the door being snatched open, his twin limping out of the room, looking broken.

“You’re just going to let them leave?” He asked, the words sounding strained since half his face was still swollen.